


All My Monsters Singing...

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [38]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Dark, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Graphic Self Harm, Other, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Triggering Material, Triggers, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He left, Eddie. He left. He’s gone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Monsters Singing...

**Author's Note:**

> Let me just warn you, this is kind of dark. It has graphic imagery of self-mutilation. If that is triggering for you, in *any* way, please don't read this story. That being said, I hope you enjoy this fic. 
> 
> The title is from "Skinny" by Edith Backlund. I do not own that song. 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing, however; it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere.

* * *

Standing, hidden behind a wall, just down the hallway from his kitchen, Spike’s hands trembled and pressed against his lips—keeping back any protests, any agreements, any s _creams_ ; this wasn’t fair, he didn’t ask for this. The bomb tech had strived all his life to be perfect; he’d suffered through it all and came out _stronger_ , but now Spike was just crumbling to the floor.

Disintegrating because of petty wounds and even pettier bags under his eyes; he was falling apart in the absence of _common sense_ —as Ed had so eloquently put it. He was decomposing from lack of _trust_ —as Sam had forcefully put it.

Spike was _sick_ —as Greg had whispered so quietly, so lost and horrified. _Horrified_ like Spike had somehow, overnight, warped himself into the form of a monster that prowled the night. _Horrified_ like Greg had never seen this man before; acting as if Spike was a stranger.

Thick, mutilated scratches lined his hips, itching and burning, ranging from nearly a year old to only a day. Nothing since then, though; he wasn’t dumb— _“How could you do this, Spike? How could you be so fucking stupid? This isn’t healthy!”_ —enough to slice himself open while under the terrified gaze of his three partners.

Three partners who were hissing quietly, trying to keep Spike—whom they thought was in the bedroom, having already torn it apart and took anything sharp away—from hearing, and angrily in the kitchenette.

Hissing about what to do, how to handle this, if suicide was a risk… Greg’s voice broke on that last one, turning hoarse and tortured. Tears slid down Spike’s face, but he kept his teeth wrapped around a knuckle and pressed his hand flat against his scars.

They didn’t understand that this was just survival; this wasn’t a sickness they could cure.

“We can’t leave him alone,” Ed sighed, and Spike bit down harder until he tasted blood, “He’s got to be watched _constantly_.”

_No. I don’t_. Spike’s mind rebelled against his lover’s words, _I’m careful. I’m not suicidal. I don’t **want** to die. I want to live, that’s why I’m doing this. I’m making myself stronger; better! _

Something snapped within him, leaving him sagging against the wall, when the bald sniper continued on with a tearful hitch to his voice.

“We can’t risk losing him. We _can’t_ lose him.”

Not willing to hear anymore, though knowing he should, Spike softly padded back to the bedroom and grabbed a change of clothes before heading into the shower. He didn’t lock the door, just closed it, knowing it would just cause a fight. And he was too tired to fight, anymore, today.

Turning the shower up towards too-hot, the bomb tech stripped down and stepped behind the waterproof-curtain with a sigh of relief. The burning liquid soothed his muscles, bunched up with anxiety and tension since the incident and subsequent discovery this morning, and washed away the tear tracks staining his face. The bandage covering his latest mark clung to his skin like an ugly reminder.

The hazy steam, ghosting across his closing cuts and old marks, breathed life into the memories he’d rather not reminisce on.

_Spike pressed the razorblade, sharp and pristine, against the taut skin of his hip and pulled—it burned, slightly overwhelming for a split-second, before it pulsed away into a pleasant sensation bordering numbness._

_Blood welled up, just a few prickling drops, but another slice in the same spot made the red line thicker and it slipped down his thigh in a tiny trail. The slick red liquid tarnished his fingertips and the blade, but his grip stayed firm._

_Another slice. Another line of blood. Another tingle of his nerves._

_Several red lines trailed down his leg, dripping from the cut—a single line, carved deeper several times until it yawned open—and Spike was about to press the metal into his revealed flesh when the door banged open and a cheeky looking Sam sauntered in._

_They both froze, processing slowly, but Spike reacted first—he slapped his hand over his open wound, hiding the blade between his fingers. It didn’t hide the crimson streaks, but it made the bomb tech seem less naked. It was an odd contradiction; standing there in a shirt with no pants or underwear, nude from the waist down, yet he felt the panic of being seen without his gashes covered._

_Sam wasn’t supposed to be here—in Spike’s house, in Spike’s room. He was supposed to be getting coffee with his sister, at some tiny place on a street the brunette couldn’t remember. Not here._

_“S-Spike?” Sam stuttered, sounding so young and so confused, then shouted behind him—voice uneven and shaky, just loud enough to be heard—“Hey, Greg, can you grab the first aid kit?”_

_“What’s wrong?” Came the concerned reply, and there were footsteps echoing down the hallway as at least one of his lovers jogged down towards his room._

_“Can you please just get the first aid kit?” The younger sniper asked again, and Spike trembled as Ed ducked into the room—eyes searching for trouble._

_The man’s gaze quickly, as perceptive as a bird of prey, snapped to his brunette lover’s hand pressed over his hip, fingers and surround skin smeared with red. Pieces clicked together, unwillingly, and the older sniper nearly stumbled back at the discovery’s weight._

_“I… I can explain,” Spike tried, feeling the blood clinging to his palm and clotting, “I know… I know this looks bad.”_

_Greg, quickly, entered the room with the small box of medical supplies held in his hand—and just as Ed had, the negotiator’s scrutinizing gaze swept the room for perceived threats and danger._

_Sam took the first aid materials from his older lover silently, the blonde placed it on the edge of Spike’s bed and pulled out a swath of gauze. He didn’t say anything, mind still reeling, just lightly wrapped his long fingers around the bomb tech’s wrist and pulled it away gently._

_Wiping away the blood drying on his skin, the younger sniper was careful to not aggravate the split flesh in his motions._

_“I’m sorry.” Spike whispered, but Sam didn’t pay attention—he just took a packet out of the box and ripped it open then pulled out the alcohol wipe._

_“This is going to sting.” The blonde said evenly, emotionlessly, then fell silent again as he softly rubbed it over the cut. Spike didn’t even flinch, used to the feeling, and Ed turned away with a hand covering his eyes as Greg peered at the floor like it’d become the most interesting pattern he’d ever seen._

_Disinfected and any red gone, Sam peeled open a large bandage and softly pressed it over the cut._

_“I’m sorry.” Spike tried again—not apologizing for the act, but rather the way his lovers had found out._

_“Now I understand why you never let us see you naked anymore.” Sam said under his breath, closing the first aid kit and peering at the bloody cloth and wipe now sitting on the bed. “You didn’t trust us enough to let us help.”_

_“I’m sorry.” Spike repeated, reaching an arm out to place a hand on Sam’s back—anything to comfort him, to reassure him, to try and fix this—but it just paused in the air then fell back to his side._

_Back to Spike, Sam just shook and swallowed back the first sob as it climbed up his throat._

_“Give me the blade.” Ed ordered, with no room for argument, striding forward, and the bomb tech bit his lip but relented,—eyes down cast, petrified—carefully laying the still-bloody razorblade in the center of his lover’s palm. “God, I can’t believe you’d do this, Spike…”_

_“We’ll…” Greg, for only a handful of times in his life, was lost for words. “We’ll make it through this, Spike. It’s going to be okay.”_

_“I’m sorry.” Was all Spike could think to say._

Shaking his head, Spike listened to the bathroom door slowly being opened—and left open—as someone sat down on the toilet seat lid.

“I packed you some clothes.” Greg spoke up, and the bomb tech quickly scrubbed the soap from his body, “We’re going to go stay at my house for a couple days.”

“We’ve got work.” Spike retorted lightly, “We aren’t off for a couple days.”

“You’re going to call in sick.” The sergeant explained, “And you’re going to stay at my place.”

“So you can keep an eye on me?” The bomb tech asked with venom in his voice, but it was dull from exhaustion.

“Spike…” Greg sighed, but the brunette caught him off.

“No, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Do you want to stop?”

Thinking about playing innocent, Spike turned off the shower and pondered his answer as he slipped an arm out to grab the towel hanging on the rack just within reach. The brunette didn’t even step out of the shower, just drying off from behind the security of the curtain. Knotting the fabric around his hips, Spike pulled back the barrier and stepped onto the bathmat—refusing to meet his older lover’s shattered and drained look.

“Spike, do you want to stop?”

“…No. I don’t.”

A gust of breath escaped the sergeant’s lips, sounding so devastated and pained, sending a chill bouncing around the bomb tech’s stomach.

“I…” Greg sighed again, “I need to check and… and make sure you didn’t h—….hurt yourself in the shower.”

“Okay.” Spike nodded, and unraveled the towel while peering up at the ceiling with tears in his eyes—feeling his partner’s gaze on his body, careful and vigilant, looking for any marks of any kind. Feeling like he was on display, Spike tried to keep his hands from twitching and covering up the parts he’d prefer to keep a secret.

“You’re going to have to stop.” Greg told him, after he’d found no new wounds, and handed Spike the clothes sitting on the countertop, “You can’t keep doing this.”

The brunette just nodded, and let the sergeant guide him from the bathroom and to the front door. Sam was finishing closing the windows, turning off unnecessary lights, and Ed was holding a small duffle bag while shifting his weight carefully.

“I need to grab my keys,” Spike spoke up as the Sam opened the front door and ushered them into the chilling evening air, but the blonde just shook his head and looked at his lover sadly.

“No, you don’t.”

“Can I at least get my phone?”

“I’ve got it,” Ed told him, raising the duffle for emphasis, “Let’s get going, okay?”

“I don’t really get a choice, do I?” The brunette asked, earning three sad gazes focused his way.

“We’re just trying to keep you safe, Spike.” Greg reasoned, slipping into the tone Spike knew he _only used_ for negotiations. That was a blow to his gut—he was only another subject, another faceless victim being talked down from the ledge, then thrust into police hands and hauled off.

“I know.” _But it doesn’t feel like it._

 

* * *

 

Three days… three days he’d been here, sitting in Greg’s house, feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin. His lovers were at the SRU, calling him frequently to “see how you’re doing” while Spike was home “sick”.

Like how Greg had described the bomb tech’s state of mind, when the sergeant thought Spike wasn’t listening.

All the knives were locked away, all the razors and extra cartridges were nowhere to be found, and even the scissors weren’t in the normal drawer.

It was like living in a padded room.

He’d had enough.

Grabbing his wallet, and his phone, Spike let himself out of Greg’s apartment—considerate enough to lock it behind him—and cheerfully walked towards the street. Eyes happy, jaw relaxed, shoulders loose—normal, he looked normal. Faked, plastered on too thickly, but realistic enough to pass by undetected and not draw unwanted attention.

It took a few minutes, but Spike smiled at the cab as it pulled up to the sidewalk and he hopped inside while chatting easily; the driver was nice, polite, and happy to talk as they rolled down the road towards Spike’s apartment.

“Thank you,” the bomb tech handed over the money, giving the driver one last smile, then loped towards his apartment. It was still locked, but the key under the doormat was still there.

Making his way through the kitchen, Spike smiled sadly at his meager home and hauled out an old piece of luggage from the back of his closet. It was scuffed in a few places, but still shiny and the wheels didn’t wobble.

Carefully folding clothes into the space, the brunette zipped the bag closed and grabbed a backpack from under the bed—it would work as carry on. A few books were tossed inside, weighing it down, along with his MP3 player.

Reality was crashing around him—was he really doing this?—but he knew, instinctively, that this was the only way.

Seeing his partners’ devastated faces every day, shoulders sagging with the exhaustion of having a self-destructing lover, were only dragging him closer to the blade. He hadn’t lied—he didn’t want to stop.

But there was a difference between _wanting_ to and _needing_ to.

Throwing his phone into the middle of his bed, knowing he’d only have an hour or two before one of the guys called, Spike grabbed his bags and hurried out the door—already calling the airport’s cab agency.

As he waved at the airport shuttle, climbing in with a thankful smile at the driver, the phone nestled in Spike’s sheets rang.

Ed’s caller I.D. pulsed on screen, the shrill cry of his ringtone filling the air, before it went dark and the voicemail function took over.

* * *

 

“Hi, you’ve reached Michelangelo Scarlatti! I can’t answer the phone right now, but…”

The bald sniper threw the phone down, hastening changing into his street clothes and out of the heavy uniform, while giving Greg and Sam a worried look.

“He’s not answer,” Ed explained lowly, and Greg nodded—lips pressed together so tightly that they were nearly white—“I’ll run by his house, you and Sam go to my place.”

“You don’t think he’d…” Sam was too scared to continue, to make the threat real.

“I don’t know, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

Giving the flight attendant a beaming smile, Spike slipped into the uncomfortable airplane seat and shoved his carry-on bag near his feet—grabbing the media player and plugging in the headphones while turning the device on.

He was in the window seat, watching people scurry around on the tarmac below, and an older man—early seventies, maybe—sat next to him with a polite nod.

“We’ll be leaving soon, ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot announced, “and it should be sunny and warm when we arrive in Rome.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s not here,” Greg barked into the phone, worry threatening to close up his throat, “and his phone’s on the bed.”

“He’s not here, either,” Sam announced, barely audible, walking swiftly from a part of Greg’s house while Ed stood in the living room holding the mobile. “Wallet’s gone.”

“Fuck.” Ed snarled, entire body tense, and was ready to let out a tyrant of curses when the negotiator slipped into the conversation again.

“Eddie, a bunch of his clothing’s gone.”

“You don’t think….”

“Call Winnie, see if she can track Spike’s card usage. I’m going to head to the airport.”

 

* * *

 

Taxing out to the runway, Spike had never felt so at ease. It was a nauseating feeling, though—that he was at ease away from his lovers and in a contraption that would take him across the sea. To a place where he didn’t have memories of cuts and tears and staying up into odd hours of the night holding bandages to his skin. To a place where maybe, just maybe, Spike could find some thread to hold onto and try to fix enough that he could come back to Toronto and be, _at least_ , okay.

He had to fix himself before he could rebuild their relationship.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Sir, but Mr. Scarlatti’s fight has already left. That’s _all_ I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Greg thought he was going to collapse right there, right on the airport floor with the clerks watching him with pity.

“Where’s he heading to?” The negotiator asked, trying and failing to not sound frantic and distressed, perfectly willing to hop on the next flight and chase his lover half-way across the globe.

“I’m truly sorry, Sir,” the lady shook her head, “but you’ll need a warrant for that.”

 

* * *

 

“He left, Eddie. He _left_. He’s _gone_.”

 

* * *

 

Landing in Italy was a weight off his chest, and meeting his mother there—having shot off a quick email—with her overly-wide smile made his heart ache. He greeted her in Italian, accent sloppy as he switched languages, and she grabbed Spike’s face between her hands and pressed soft kisses to his forehead.

“ _Your father would have been so proud of you_ ,” she murmured in her beloved tongue, “ _I’m so glad you asked for help, Mikey._ ”

— _but I couldn’t ask the men I love for help. I couldn’t watch them fall apart with me. I ran away from them, from my problems._ The bomb tech thought, but his mother just clasped his hands in hers and whispered softly in English.

“This is about you getting better. Only you, Mikey.” She switched back to Italian with a flurry of words, “ _They’ll understand, Mikey. They love you. If this is what you need, to get away and patch yourself up, then that’s what right. Don’t feel ashamed, Mikey, if this is how you need to heal._ ”

 

* * *

 

Three months later, _only_ timeworn scars fading harshly on his hips, Spike stood at Greg’s door with a bouquet of flowers and tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, just like he had on that fateful night, but the stunned negotiator just jerked him forward and crushed him in a sobbing hug, “I’m sorry.”

Ed and Sam, standing just a foot away from the two, stood shocked-still with disbelieving looks. They rushed forward, nearly sending Greg and Spike crumbling to the floor, and clung on until their fingers were numb.

“I’m sorry,” Spike repeated, though Ed tried to shut him up by tightening the hug.

When that didn’t work, and the bomb tech just kept repeating himself, Sam shoddily crashed his lips against Spike’s and curled his hands in the short, brown hair.

“ _Spike._ ”

It sounded like hope, liberation, conviction, release.

It sounded like an _answered_ prayer.

 


End file.
